Just Admit It
by LoyalNerdWP
Summary: " - you've left a space for him!" Mycroft persists, waving a hand at the empty spot next to his brother. Sherlock furrows his brow and glances furtively to the left, eyeing the empty cushion beside him. "Honestly, brother, I figured you'd not be so blind about this kind of thing, but do I truly have to spell it out for you?"


Quite honestly, Sherlock hadn't realised that having different holiday plans than John would annoy him until John left the flat and Sherlock was on his way to the airport.

Going to his mother's house, in itself, was part of the major cause for irritation - mostly because he was to be stuck in her home (though rather vast and easy to escape in) with Mycroft as well, who had a terrible nuisance of a habit that consisted of finding him wherever he went.

He had once resorted to saying, "bugger off, you fat buzzard," and hadn't seen him for at least four hours after. Using that line again was taken briefly into consideration. If Mycroft was going to continually insist that _someone_ had to be the adult, Sherlock may as well act as a child toward him. Especially without John by his side to stop him.

Walking through the airport and taking the plane hadn't been entirely too terrible. Spending so much time with John had him observing more people for the sheer fun of it - though, when he turned to his left to point something out to him and remembered (quickly and briefly, mind you) that John wasn't there, he'd scoffed quietly and made his way to the terminal a bit faster.

When he arrived at the airport in Nice nearly two hours later, he blatantly ignored the man waiting for him - his chauffeur, assuredly - and headed straight to the baggage claim before catching himself a cab and tossing out his mother's address in a snippy tone.

The cabby gave him a half glare and Sherlock nearly made a quip to the empty seat next to him about all taxi drivers being homicidal before he caught himself.

Unfortunately, the cab ride was short, and before long, he's carrying his case up to the front door of his mother's home and pulling out a key with reluctance. He hangs his coat and scarf and is just getting to removing his shoes when he hears footsteps in the hall and groans inwardly.

"Sherlock!" his mother says happily, grinning when she sees him. He flashes her a quick smile and toes off a shoe, kicking it to the side.

"Bonjour, maman," he greets briefly, stooping to press a chaste kiss to her cheek when she steps forward.

"Don't bother with pretending you've spoken french since you moved to England," she tells him with a vague scolding tone to her heavy accent (though her smile contradicts). "I've been brushing up on my english, anyhow."

"I have, though," Sherlock says defiantly. "Not frequently, of course, but there have been a few cases where it's been necessary. And if I get too bored I start speaking in french because it annoys John." He smiles for a moment before it falls away and he grabs up his case. "I'll be downstairs in a moment." He slips past her and turns down the hall, making his way instinctively to the stairs and up to his old bedroom.

When he's put off going back down for as long as possible (taking out and folding and hanging his clothes and staring around the room with a dull hatred he saves only for his childhood) he finally pulls the door open, mindful of the creaking, and steps out, making his way down the stairs as slowly as he can.

Mycroft still manages to hear him and come to greet him at the bottom with an oily grin.

"Sherlock," he says. Sherlock's lip turns up - he's been here long enough that his accent has transitioned into an awkward mix of french and english. It's disgusting.

"Bugger off," Sherlock mutters, pushing past him.

"My, John really has been quite the influence on your language," Mycroft says after him. Sherlock resists using a hand signal he also learnt from John and heads toward the sitting room to find his mother instead.

As much as he hates to admit it, Sherlock doesn't have as much of a terrible time that day as he'd hoped he would.

He despises that, because he rarely has a good time if John's not there with him, and it's annoying that he's having one just sitting around with his mother and practising his native tongue.

He's too hardheaded to admit that he just simply misses John. It is, however, extremely obvious to Mycroft, and even his mother, who has never seen them together. They're a family of observers, surely, but she has no background information on their behaviour around each other, so she shouldn't be able to see the subtle way Sherlock glances to his left when he finds something amusing or says something that's probably a bit not good. She can see the empty space on the left side of the love seat, because Sherlock has sat closer to the right edge as though to make room for someone else. And it is - though well concealed - very, very clear that he's a much different man than who moved out almost fifteen years ago.

At nine that evening, Mrs. Holmes excuses herself to get ready for bed, stepping over to press a kiss into her son's soft curls, and smiles wanly at him when she steps through the door. When she leaves, Sherlock heaves a sigh and runs a hand through his hair, slumping heavily against the couch and wondering if he ought to sleep at all tonight.

Mycroft comes through the door a few minutes later and watches him from the doorway. Sherlock groans exaggeratedly.

"Fous le camp," he orders, making a sweeping gesture with his hands. "Va!"

"Oh, drop it," Mycroft says slickly, strolling in and taking his mother's place in a posh chair across from the sofa. Sherlock rolls his eyes and stretches an arm across the back of the love seat and crosses one leg over the other, glaring at his brother.

"Is there any particular reason you insist on being here?" Sherlock asks, enjoying the way his reinstated accent sounds far better than Mycroft's already.

"Missing John, I see," Mycroft says, ignoring him. Sherlock grits his teeth and his fingertips dig into the material of the sofa. "Would it have been so much to invite him along?"

"And force him to spend three days in a house with you? _Non_, Mycroft."

"Why would he be spending the time with me?" Mycroft asks. "I rather think he'd much prefer to be around you."

"Oh, god," Sherlock groans, tipping his head back. "Are you really going to take this track?"

Mycroft continues. "Sherlock, it's horribly obvious how different - "

" - _please shut up_ - "

" - if you just _look_ at yourself - "

" - don't you have anything better - "

" - you've left a space for him!" Mycroft persists, waving a hand at the empty spot next to his brother. Sherlock furrows his brow and glances furtively to the left, eyeing the empty cushion beside him. "Honestly, brother, I figured you'd not be so blind about this kind of thing, but do I truly have to spell it out for you?"

Sherlock bares his teeth and pushes off the sofa, straightening his suit jacket sharply. "Forget this entirely," he hisses. Mycroft narrows his eyes at him and Sherlock strides out fluidly, shutting the parlor door loudly behind him.

He locks himself in the library until midnight.

At about twelve thirty, he sticks his head out into the empty hallway. It's all quiet and dark, but he's sure Mycroft is still awake, if in his room and silent. He exhales softly and pads down the hall until he comes to the sitting room again, and swiftly opens and shuts the door behind him, falling onto the sofa on the right side, before scowling and stretching his legs out over the arm on the opposite end. The fireplace still has a dim fire glowing that's really more embers than anything, but it's enough to cast a soft orange over the room.

Sherlock pulls out his phone and spins it around in his hand a few times before sighing and unlocking it, going into his address book, and pressing the icon next to John's name.

He picks up on the third ring.

"_Sherlock, it's nearly two in the morning!_" he whispers fervently. Sherlock grins immediately.

"And you're still wide awake," he points out. "It's not as though I've disturbed you. I knew you wouldn't be sleeping."

"_Oh? And how did you figure that one out?_" Sarcasm, he notes.

"You share a sleep schedule with me," he says. There's a pause on the other line.

"_Fuck_," John mutters. There's a shuffling that sounds like bedsheets and a creak of hinges, then the quiet rush of wind. "_You're going to be the death of me, you skinny git_."

Sherlock chuckles deeply. "Not if you fall off the fire escape."

"_Oh, wow, you've got on accent_," John says. "_I hadn't noticed_."

"Observant as ever, John."

"_Never mind it, git, I was going to compliment you, but forget it. What do you need_?"

"Hmm?"

"_Why are you calling me at two in the morning_?"

"It's only one here," Sherlock says simply.

There's another pause. "_So you're just... calling me because you can_?"

"I'm bored."

There's a soft laugh on the other line. "_You are the most annoying prat I've ever had the pleasure of meeting. You do realise that you could've called me earlier in the day if you wanted to talk_?"

Sherlock scoffs and pulls the phone from his ear, hitting the speaker and setting it on his stomach. "Who said I wanted to talk?"

"_What did you just do_?" John asks. "_Sounds funny now_."

"Speaker phone."

John's grin can almost be heard in the pause. "_You __**miss**__ me_," he says brightly.

"Ridiculous," Sherlock denies immediately, ignoring the rush of warmth in his cheeks.

"_No, you do, you sentimental idiot_," John laughs.

"Shut up," Sherlock snaps. There's more laughing on the other line and he considers just hanging up and forgetting it.

"_Oh, calm your arse_," John pipes up. "_I miss you, too_."

Sherlock quirks a brow. "... Do you?"

"_Yes!_" John promises. "_I spent the day with Harry and my cousins and all I could think about is how much they'd like you. Or - probably just be amused by you, really. They'd get a kick out of your quirks. Probably bother you to no end, I'm sure._"

"If they're anything like Harry, I can't imagine we'd be able to stay in the same room without jumping into an argument."

"_You'd be outnumbered, too_."

"They'd be outnumbered, if we're speaking on intellectual terms," Sherlock sniffs.

"_Arrogant prat_."

"Are you going to spend this entire conversation insulting me every other sentence?"

"_You're the one that called me_!" John protests. "_At two in the morning, no less._"

Sherlock laughs and tips his head to look up at the ceiling. "I told you - I'm bored."

"_Can you not just say it?_"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"_You miss me. Come on, it's not that hard_."

"No."

"_Come on, Sherlock, it's Christmas_."

"What's your point?"

"_Have some holiday spirit_?" John tries.

Sherlock snorts.

"_Alright, do it for me, then. I know you didn't get me a gift_." Sherlock looks down at his phone and frowns. "_And that's alright, cos I didn't have a single idea for what to do for you. So just say it, huh_?"

Pursing his lips, Sherlock draws in a breath and rubs the screen of his phone absentmindedly. "Yes, fine," he mutters. "Tu me manque."

"_What_?"

"Tu me manque. It's in french."

"_Yeah, I heard,_" John mumbles. "_Figured it'd be nice if you could say it in english, though._"

"It's more meaningful in french."

"_Why?_"

"It's my first language," Sherlock reminds him. "Has something to do with the deep, cold recesses of my heart or some other ridiculous statement that Mycroft might make."

Sherlock hears John exhale softly and when he speaks, he can vividly see the worn smile that he must be wearing, eyes crinkled just the slightest, and his heart warms.

"_It's gotta be pretty terrible, being stuck with him_," he says simply.

"Quite."

There's a short pause before John asks, "_why didn't you ask me along_?"

A startled look crosses Sherlock's face. "Sorry?"

"_Nothing, I just -_ " John cuts off. "_I know you didn't want to go in the first place, so I just figured - what with us - whatever we are - never mind_."

"Are you cutting out or are you stammering?" Sherlock asks hesitantly.

"_Wh - why the hell does it matter?_"

"It does."

"_Stammering_," he admits quietly. Sherlock nods to himself before continuing.

"Je t'apprécie vraiment."

"Sherlock - "

"No, shut up," Sherlock interrupts. "It's Christmas, which is widely viewed as a holiday spent with loved ones. However, you're 1,000 kilometres away, so just be quiet and listen."

The line goes quiet and Sherlock takes a slow breath.

"I miss you," he says. "An irritating amount. I've been subconsciously leaving a ruddy place for you on the sofa. It's so far past ridiculous that I want to laugh. I didn't invite you to come along because it seemed like something you'd protest to. Coming home to France with me for the holiday? People might talk, no?"

John's side is still quiet and Sherlock curses under his breath.

"I'm never going to repeat any of this, so you had better still be there."

"_Yeah - yeah, no, I'm here_," John says thickly, clearing his throat. "_You really thought_ - ?"

"I imagined it would be easier to allow you to go spend time with your family."

"_And now you're stuck in France with Mycroft_."

"His accent is atrocious."

The line goes quiet again and Sherlock listens, waiting for John to speak. A gust of wind blows against his phone.

"_You brought your computer along with you, right_?"

"That's a stupid question; of course I did." Sherlock narrows his eyes at his phone. "Why?"

_"Just because I didn't come initially doesn't mean I can't come a bit late,_" John tells him. "_Book me a ticket for this evening, alright? I'll run back to Baker Street and grab some extra clothes_."

"What?"

"_Christmas is a holiday you spend with your loved ones, and you're stuck in France with your mum and your brother. I could at least do you a favour and suffer through with you_."

A slightly astonished smile grows on Sherlock's face. "I'll have you here before dinner," he promises.

"Good," John replies, and Sherlock can hear the grin in his voice. "I love you, moron."

Sherlock's cheeks flush red and he smirks. "Just shut up and go to bed."

There's a laugh on the other line before it clicks dead and Sherlock grins at the ceiling. His message alert goes off and he looks at his phone, intrigued, before snarling quietly.

_I'll inform mummy that we're having another visitor. MH_

_If I so much as see you smirking later, I will beat you with your own umbrella. SH_


End file.
